After the first two entries on this topic, I feel the need to finish the story...
I advanced to college at a time when most teenagers were starting their junior year of high school ("You'll miss your senior prom," my mother said, in a vain effort to get me to think about my decision. "I don't care." I replied. "Get me out of here."). There were a few caveats. One was that, being too young, I had to attend the college where my father taught. I also had to return for my high school graduation ceremony with my class. I considered this a higher price than skipping the prom, actually, but it was still a small price to pay. I was utterly bored, and even my parents could see me chafing at the rules and regs of my high school, where I felt much more like a prisoner than a student.
The third caveat (that was made a good deal of) was taking some form of English comp in my first year. Most freshmen had to either take comp or test out of it, but because English comp was one of the senior high school requirements I had wriggled out of, my undergraduate school made a big point of it (no one seemed very concerned that I skipped physics too). Again, no biggie. I had always liked to write. I was pretty smart, I thought. Sure, bring it on.
I had two choices - take a three-credit, one semester course, or take three, one-credit "English Conference" courses. Being a faculty brat, I knew everyone. I looked over the teaching roster for the semester. I didn't really care for the comp teachers. On the other hand, one of the faculty members available for the conference course was a certain Dr. D. I elected for the three-semester, one-credit version with him.
Here's why I picked Dr. D., and sentenced myself to the first 1-1/2 years of my college life spending 1/2 hour each week with him: he was a published writer. Dr. D. was not one of the blowhards in the English department who talked about other people's books - he had his own (which, as far as I knew, he never talked about). I had heard about him from his arrival at the college, sometime around when I was in middle school. Dr. D. was an Indian immigrant, and had published numerous novels there. From time to time, he still published novels there. The library was one of the cooler new buildings on campus, and Dr. D. had a study carel to himself where he worked for two hours, writing - every day, from 8:00 to 10:00am. If anyone tried to get his attention, and managed to get past the phalanx of librarians who seemed as zealous about his work time as he was, he would politely explain that he could not talk, and to see him in his office. Though the librarians regularly reshelved books left in the carels by students and faculty, the books in Dr. D.'s carel were always left alone, by some sort of magical arrangement. I "chanced" to walk by, and found books on history and politics. Here was a guy who was serious and managed to bend rules (of library carels, anyway). My kind of guy.
I remember handing in my first writing assignment to Dr. D. I actually don't remember what it was about. I remember (in those pre-word-processing days) that my father had helped me type it, because I wanted to make a good impression. I remember *most* clearly the way Dr. D. read through my work aloud, with his melodious accent, then took out a red felt-tip pen, and started in.
I felt like I had never seen so much red ink in my life. I was horrified, aghast. I was an A-student. I would have been in the honor society in my high school except for my bad habit of telling teachers what I actually thought about stuff. And I was failing my first assignment in college! Holy crap.
I wanted to cry. But I didn't. Instead, I tried to listen to Dr. D. explain that while my sentences were nice, my organization absolutely sucked. Here, he said, use this as a topic sentence. Look, he said, this sentence down here should be in this paragraph up here. This sentence should really be two. Or three. Finally, he said: Rewrite this assignment and bring it back to me next week.
I was mortified. My dad asked me how it went. I think I mumbled something. He asked if we should type the next assignment. I said no, it was okay.
I could not look at my marked up paper, with its tide of red, for a couple of days, but I thought about it, and about what Dr. D. said. And then I started to remember the Box. The Box that taught me writing skills, 'way back in elementary school, had told me pretty much what Dr. D. had said, and it all came back to me. I reread my "blood"-soaked essay, and saw what Dr. D. saw.
The following week I brought in my hand-written rewrite. Again, the red pen came out, but there was less of a tide this time. By the third week, there was almost no red. Dr. D. congratulated me on my improvement. I did other assignments, and, since I was allowed to, even brought in some assignments for other classes. Other students I met were struggling with their first term papers, but not me (unless you count battling with my dad's old electric typewriter at 3:00 in the morning). By the end of the third semester, I could not understand why everyone didn't take English Conference! What an awesome idea! My new college friends thought I was nuts to spend three semesters having to actually talk to a professor for 1/2 hour every week. By my fourth semester, I wasn't just writing term papers, but journal entries and poetry too.
Dr. D.'s advice led me through two graduate degrees and still follows me now. I summarized most of his big points in part 1 of this topic. It seems like pretty dry stuff, but after you get the basic ideas, you can riff on them, a point lost on a lot of inexperienced writers. The riffing is important; that's what makes it fun, and what makes the work uniquely yours.
Some years ago, I saw Dr. D. at a college gathering (many years ago, actually. If Dr. D. is still on the planet, he's many-years retired by now). I was either still working on, or had just finished my second graduate degree. He looked the same, but a little stouter, and his dark hair had turned silver, though he still had the same haircut. We chatted about this and that, and, without really thinking about it, I told him that everything I had done as a writer was thanks to him. To my complete surprise, his eyes got misty, and he said, "You know, as a teacher, I always hope I do some good for my students, but I don't often get to hear that I actually did."
In my posts, I frequently mention my first budo teacher, along with other colleagues, friends and teachers. I have learned a lot from all of them. But I would not be writing about any of it without the anonymous creators of the Box, and especially not without Dr. D.
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